Sometimes, I struggle to breathe.
Something invisible grasps at me – a hand at my throat, a fist in my chest. Anxiety settles like a weighted blanket on my body, convincing me I can’t move, even as I force my lips into a smile and put one foot in front of the other. I keep going, but I still feel trapped, smothered by a threat only I can sense.
Before it spreads, it starts in my head.
I think anxiety has taken up permanent residence there, in my mind. She’s become a familiar inhabitant – one I’ve learned to understand, even appreciate in small ways. She helps me prepare for every possible outcome in a given situation.
Even the most outlandish ones.
What if my car burst into flames out of nowhere? My anxiety’s considered that. What if I find out none of my peers and professors can stand me? I won’t be surprised. She’s prepped me for that, too.
When my brother and I used to do theater together, our pre-show moments could have been a performance of their own. You couldn’t find two more different dispositions. His hands were always dry; mine were slick with sweat. His heart beat steadily; mine threatened to leap out of my chest.
“Just don’t stress,” he’d say. “It’s okay.”
And that fixed everything.
Not.
I’ve never been able to do anything in these situations except move forward. Pretend everything’s fine. That’s what acting is, after all. And I was good at it, partly because when I stepped on stage, I had already predicted most of the ways the script could get flipped.
Life is like that, too. It’s all a stage, and every scene is unpredictable. When it gets too stressful – when breathing becomes difficult – the people I love tell me everything will be okay.
I’ve stopped trying to explain why that isn’t always helpful. I’ve lived with anxiety long enough, and worked through enough of her imagined scenarios, to know my people are right.
Everything will be okay, because I will make it okay.
My anxiety doesn’t have to inhibit me. When she tries to escape my mind, I walk her back home. She doesn’t get to live in my heart, in my lungs.
I still struggle to breathe sometimes. But I know it will pass, because it always does.
I also know the people who matter most won’t think less of me if I flub a line; they’ll still love me if I fail my finals. That realization, in itself, feels like a breath of fresh air.
